Chapter 21
TROY
Iwake up warm and for once, not because I forgot to turn the heating in my room off.
There’s a second, a beautiful, perfect, blurry second, where everything in my body remembers last night before my brain does. The way her fingers dug into my shoulders. The way she cried my name. And for one blissful breath, I reach across the bed—
And I find nothing.
Cold sheets. The dip in the mattress is still there, just barely. But she’s gone.
My eyes blink open. The early morning light is already stretching through the blinds.
She left. I check the bedside table and flick on my phone.
No note. No text. Not even a sound. Damn, am I that heavy of a sleeper?
I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to play it cool.
No big deal. No promises. No expectations. We didn’t say anything. Didn’t define anything. It was just tension. A release.
She was getting me out of her system. That’s all.
Still.
She could’ve stayed for breakfast.
I make a mean bacon sandwich. Hell, she could’ve at least stolen one of my hoodies on the way out. Most girls would.
I sit up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. I thought being with her would burn away this desire. That whatever this was, tension, curiosity, obsession, would settle once we crossed that line.
But instead, I feel... worse. Not in a bad way.
In a more way. Like I’ve opened a door I didn’t know was locked, and now I don’t ever want to shut it.
My room still smells faintly like her—vanilla and leather. God, why am I sitting here feeling sad she’s not here? I’ve done casual and I’ve done plenty hookups and “this doesn’t mean anything.”
Hell, I invented the casual, no-strings playbook.
But my relationship with Delilah Greer was never casual. Not even when she hated me.
I pull on some sweats, pad down the hall, and find Ethan face-deep in a bowl of cereal like it’s his last meal.
He glances up. “What’s up with you, Casanova?”
“She left.”
“Damn,” he says around a mouthful of Lucky Charms. “Like, left-left?”
“Gone. No text. No note. Nothing.”
He frowns. “You okay?”
I shrug. Try for a smile. Miss by a mile. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like I caught feelings or anything.”
Ethan pauses. Raises his spoon slowly and points it at me.
“You caught feelings.”
“Nope.”
“You absolutely did. Look at your face. That’s your heartbreak face.”
“This is my post-sex-hunger face.” I reach over, steal a handful of his cereal out of the box.
He lets me, but narrows his eyes. “You’ve never let any other girl come over for dinner. You always invite them into your bed after 10pm. She’s cool, I like her. She’s different, not your usual type.”
I glance at him.
“She’s hot too. Maybe we should double date, you and her, me and Paige. It could be fun,” Ethan says, crunching another mouthful of cereal.
I snort and toss the dish towel over my shoulder.
“Please. She barely tolerates me. You think she'd survive two hours with you?”
He shrugs. “You’re the one looking all wounded this morning, Romeo.”
“I’m not—wounded.” The word tastes stupid. Weak. Like I should spit it out.
I grab a mug and busy myself with the coffee like it’ll shut him up.
“She’s not that special,” I add, too fast. Too sharp. “It was just a random hookup. No big deal.”
Ethan freezes mid-chew, eyebrows raised. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.
Because even I don’t believe myself.
And before I can take it back—or double down—footsteps echo down the hallway.
“Mornin', losers!”
Tara sweeps into the kitchen, bright-eyed and smugly showered, like she didn’t down three vodka crans and cry about the Eras Tour last night before me and Delilah escaped upstairs. My sister has a particular talent for avoiding hangovers and it’s annoying as fuck.
“Why are you so awake?” I grumble.
“Because unlike you two trolls, I am thriving,” she says, grabbing a mug and pouring herself coffee like she pays rent here. She does not.
She hops up on the counter beside the fridge and takes a long sip, then glances at me and Ethan.
“So… are we talking about Delilah?”
I groan. “No. Absolutely not. You are banned from weighing in.”
Tara just raises her brows, clearly not caring about my decree. I can already see where this is going.
She wants me to have a girlfriend so she and Alex can plan stupid date game nights or couple's yoga, or whatever it is they do.
“I like her,” Tara says, swinging her legs. “She’s funny. And smart. Kinda savage. I think I might become even better friends with her.”
That gets my attention.
“No. Don't.”
Tara pouts. “What? Why not?”
I wave a hand. “Because then you’ll start texting her and bonding and wearing matching outfits or whatever—and the next thing I know, she’ll be dressing like you in fluffy pink jackets.”
Ethan snorts into his cereal.
I rub a hand down my face.
Tara grins. “You’re so weird when you like someone. It’s actually kinda cute.”
“I don’t like her,” I snap, entirely too fast.
They both stare at me.
Ethan lifts a single brow.
Tara tilts her head.
And I do what any emotionally repressed man in denial would do—
I grab Ethan’s cereal box and walk out of the room.
Back in my room, I toss the cereal on the desk and flop face-first into my mattress, phone clutched like it’s got answers.
It doesn’t. Obviously.
The room’s quiet now. That annoying kind of quiet where you’re suddenly way too aware of your own breathing and how pathetically long it’s been since you checked your texts.
Again. Still nothing.
I roll onto my back and lift my phone to my face like I haven’t done this three times already.
I open our thread anyway, like maybe I missed something. But no—still just project notes and dry logistics, like last night didn’t happen. Like she didn’t let me make her orgasm. Like I didn’t get to see her unravel in my arms.
Jesus. Blood rushes to my dick just thinking about it.
I shouldn’t care this much. We didn’t agree to anything. No labels, no expectations. It was just—
I don’t know what it was. It was amazing, the best sex or like…nearly the best sex of my life and fucking hell, I didn’t even come.
And now I’m stuck here trying to figure out how to text someone I’ve literally already had my mouth on. I scroll up, rereading something she sent last week about wind load variables and architectural symmetry. Real flirty stuff. Super romantic.
I could text her now.
Ask about the competition.
Or class.
Or… something casual.
Option 1: Hey, just checking the project files—did you want to go over section 3 again?
Too business-y. Sounds like I’m pretending last night didn’t happen.
Option 2: Hey. How are you?
God, what am I, 87?
Option 3: You working today? Want me to bring lunch?
That one stalls me. Makes me picture her in the shop, behind the counter, probably pretending she doesn’t care if she’s eaten or not. I could make those egg mayo sandwiches she liked at the camp cafeteria, even though she said they were “edible at best.” She still ate them quickly every time.
Would she think it’s weird? Too much? No. Too much. Sandwiches are a commitment. That’s like… second base in Delilahland. Plus I already got her donuts, maybe her stalker claims are right.
I swipe away from the message draft and toss the phone onto my chest. It doesn’t make me feel better. Just heavier.
Since when do I overthink texts?
I scrub my hands over my face, frustrated. I do not like this feeling. I don’t like waiting. Or wanting.
I grab the nearest pillow, press it over my face, and groan like a boy half my age. My voice echoes back at me through cotton and frustration.
“Get your shit together.”
The pillow doesn’t respond. Probably for the best.
I grab another handful of cereal when I feel the itch again. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my phone. Screen dark. No new messages.